


Dig Deeper than a Grave

by dedougal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel decides to spend a little time doing things the Winchester way and comes along on a perfectly ordinary salt and burn job. Of course, nothing is what it seems. Especially after Cas’ recent experience with Film Noir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dig Deeper than a Grave

**Author's Note:**

> For spn_cinema. A reworking of _The Third Man_.

“The dead are happier dead. They don’t miss much here, poor devils.”

It was a nice funeral. As funerals go. The cold wind that had been cutting through the city seemed to give up the ghost for the day and the sun stayed appropriately behind the grey clouds. There were only a few people there. Two men, one with a toupee that seems to want to take off despite the lack of wind. A girl, sobbing into a white handkerchief. The pastor, reciting bland words from a worn black book, speeding up at the end to finish off before the cold reached all of his extremities. And that was all there was to say goodbye to poor old Robert Lemon. Bert, as the word knew him. Not Rob, or Robbie, but Bert. Weirdly old fashioned in the way he insisted on that.

And everyone thought that was it. Their pointless little city in the middle of nowhere hadn’t really taken much notice of Bert Lemon when he was alive and even less now he was dead.

 

Dean violently spun the wheel of his beloved Impala and parked the car on the gravel at the edge of the road. The road which ran straight until it was lost beyond the horizon. I had to hold on to the back of the seat to avoid being thrown into the door. “Okay, dude.” He brought his hand up to point emphatically. “We’re not doing this if you’re going to monologue or voiceover or whatever the hell you think you are doing.”

Sam jerked around in his seat to look at me. “What? I can’t hear anything.”

I shrugged. “I was merely trying to follow the ‘rules’ of the genre. I think it may be one of the…”

“Profound bond things,” Sam finished for me. “What’s it like?”

“Like a freaking novel being recited in my head. This is your fault.” Dean turned his anger on his younger, yet taller brother. “Sam! Use his freaking name! And you don’t have to point out the height thing. It’s like Chuck but a million times worse.” Dean poked angrily, determinedly at the stereo. “When you said you wanted to come along on this case, I didn’t hear anything about a behind-the-scenes commentary.” Dean turned back to Sam. “All. Your. Fault,” he repeated.

“My fault?” Sam asked, looking at Dean sceptically. He had the half fond, half exasperated look he often wore when faced with Dean. Their brotherly bond was truly inspiring though it led them to do many stupid things for each other.

“You’re the one that showed him all those ‘classy’ movies. I knew we should have stuck to the classics.” Dean swung round to look out along the lonely highway.

“Die Hard is not a classic, Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes, pointedly.

“How can you roll your eyes pointedly, Cas? I mean, really?” Dean spun the car back onto the road. “We’re gonna listen to some music, drive for a while and everyone – I mean everyone – is going to shut up.”

The lean black car roared ominously into the black night, thumping bass and screeching guitars...

“Dammit, Cas.”

 

We rolled into town, a town like every town we’ve been to – “Cas. You haven’t really been to that many towns with us.” – Every town they’ve been to. A run-down motel awaited them, themed around the sea for all this town is a thousand miles from any ocean. Two beds, as usual, with sheets that have seen better days and a shower that…

“Cas. Again. What is with the constant describing of everything?” Dean looked pissed, flinging his duffel down on the bed nearest the door. He never told Sam this, but he always grabbed that bed as a way of keeping him safe. Safe from the danger that only they knew lay outside the door, danger kept at bay by a fragile salt line. “I’m warning you.”

“Why are you warning me?” I asked, eyes caught by the flash of anger and amusement in Dean’s green eyes. He narrowed them at me.

“If you don’t stop the narration of everything, I’m going to use that old Enochian symbol.” Dean jumped in before I could protest. “Agreement or not.” I had no choice but to stop, to rethink. Dean paced the floor in frustration, jeans riding low on his hips. He was tired from the driving, waiting for Sam to return with greasy take out, before showering and collapsing into the lumpy pillows. Dean slapped his hand onto his forehead and glared at me again, eyes dark with anger, frustration or something else, something that has been brewing between us for far too long.

Dean’s jaw dropped. “What? Cas?”

Sam thrust the door open, took in Dean’s awestruck expression and threw the bag of food on the rickety round table. “Burgers, as per usual. Cas, I got one for you.”

I thanked him, eyes not shifting from Dean, who seemed to be thinking hard about what to say. Eventually he shrugged, slapped a hand on my shoulder and grabbed his own meal from the bag. He ate contentedly.

 

We’d been drawn here by a report in the down-at-heel local newspaper that had been picked up by one of Sam’s web searches. He thought there was something weird in the way the death of a local mortician had been reported. I came along for the ride. Since the war in Heaven ended, I’ve handed over my duties and spent more time on Earth, helping. It seemed _fitting_ that I atone in some way. I continue to be drawn here. I continue to be drawn by Dean.

Sam had been shocked to see me appear in the back of the Impala but Dean just held out his hand and made me slap it in some kind of bonding ritual. I should perhaps explain the complexities of angel ritual bonding to him. He would cope with most of it. I do doubt Dean would enjoy the flight aspect though. Sam had glared at me, mouth scrunched into a frown but with kind eyes and continued explaining the complexities of the case.

Night came quickly, sun dropping below the horizon and setting the clouds alight. Dean had stretched out on the bed and fallen asleep, head pillowed on his clasped hands. He looked peaceful. I hated to wake him. Sam suggested I use a kiss for Sleeping Beauty. I think Sam was being “sarcastic”. Then we set off together in the car again, sweeping through the empty streets to reach the cemetery.

Black gothic gates loomed into the darkness, wrought iron describing shapes like my wings, like demon smoke. Sam suggested we climb the metal but Dean muttered under his breath, thinking we would not hear him complain of advancing age. He made quick work of the lock while I held his shovel. I kept his shovel as we made our way through the serried ranks, seeking that one particular grave.

There was nothing to distinguish the grave from the others around it, a plain grey stone at its head letting us know we’d found the eternal resting place of one Robert E Lemon. Dean didn’t pay any attention to the way people normally act in a graveyard, slinging the can of gas he was carrying to the ground and perching on the stone.

“Get to it,” he said, voice echoing gravelly.

“Dean,” Sam… whined, actually. “Why aren’t you digging?”

“I’m older,” Dean said, counting the reasons off on his fingers. “I’ve been driving all day. And I have to listen to Cas’ endless recounting of what we’re fucking doing.”

I look over to see him glaring at me again. Our eyes met for a long time. Eventually Dean blinked and broke our stare. “I am older than you,” I pointed out. “By millennia.”

“Yeah.” Dean stopped there unable to challenge the statement. “Well…” I handed him my coat and suit jacket. It would not do for them to get covered in grave dirt for all that I can clean with a minor application of my powers. I unfastened my tie and rolled up my sleeves, taking the rough wood handle of the shovel firmly in my grasp before planting it solidly in the soil.

Dean’s eyes were wide, his mouth hung open when Sam dumped his jacket on top of my coat and began to dig alongside me. Dean shifted uncomfortably on top of the tombstone, adjusting –

“Cas. Dig. Stop narrating.” Dean looked halfway between embarrassed and angry, and I bowed to his bidding, neatly slicing into the dry soil. Sam grunted beside me.

Digging a grave is something that sounds like it should be serious and sombre. Instead it is mainly hard work. Angelic strength would have meant it was easy but I had chosen to act as human for most intents and purposes and Sam and I sweated beside each other. It made sense for him to wear a dark shirt, as my white became ever more transparent from the dampness on my skin. Dean’s face flushed as I stood up to ease my back. I looked down to see the rose of my nipples clear through the thin cloth.

The coffin was still new in the ground, relatively speaking. Sam straddled the grave and levered the lid up, making a face at the smell. The body had suffered before death, injuries mangling its fragile form. I could tell it was a man, but no embalmer had attempted to restore his face to a semblance of life.

“Must have been a closed casket,” Dean remarked as he dumped a quantity of gas over the decomposing flesh. Sam eased himself upright and watched carefully as Dean lit a matchbook from a motel three towns away and dropped it in. Orange flame flared out of the open grave, making Dean’s face take on shadows it didn’t normally have. It was hard to look away from him, to stop noticing the new facets and lines…

“I don’t have lines, you dick. I have weathering. If that.” Dean looked fierce in the light from the flame. He was scowling, which made the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes deepen. Dean picked up my shovel and headed back to the gates, muttering under his breath. I had to retrieve my clothing from where it hung over a nearby tombstone and then walk quickly to catch up with the brothers ahead of me. Sam was laughing at Dean when I re-joined them, knotting my tie around my neck.

 

Sam thought that was the case sealed. He pulled beers from the cooler and handed one to Dean. He hesitated before offering one to me. They were still getting used to me being here, joining them like this. Dean flicked on the TV and pointed at the bathroom. “Sammy, you go first.”

“You sure?” Sam sounded shocked. I understood why he was taken aback. Dean always grabbed the shower first. It was as immutable as the sun rising in the east and apple pie in roadside diners. I slid my eyes back to Dean.

“You and Cas did all the digging. You shower first. You stink more.” Dean hid his face by rummaging in his bag, dragging out his wash bag and the old sweats he sometimes slept in. I suppose it was right. The weather was on the cold side after all. “Maybe Cas should shower. If he’s rocking the whole human experience thing.”

I had not thought about it. It made sense after all. Dean said this body smelled of ozone and power but from the noises Sam made when he stepped under the stream of hot water, the low groans that came from behind the locked door, suggested that-

“Cas,” Dean interrupted urgently. “That’s not just the shower. Sam’s enjoying a little private time in there.”

“Private time?” It takes me a moment to understand what Dean is referring to. Sam is a grown man after all and capable of heading off whenever he wished. Then understanding sunk in. “Don’t you tell him you can hear him?”

“There’s teasing and then there’s oversharing,” Dean pointed out, grabbing another beer from the cooler and handing it to me before pulling one out for himself. He shuddered all over. “But tonight we drink, watch crappy motel TV and pass out in celebration of our hunt.”

 

In the morning, I accompanied Sam to the local library. Dean had insisted that I spend some time with Sam to give him “much needed” alone time. I think he intended to do what Sam had done in the shower and was somewhat tempted to stay around and see if he made similar noises in the same way that I am curious about everything Dean does. I may have rebuilt his body from the cells out, but knowing Dean is something different.

Sam was eager to find out more, more about Bert Lemon but also about the hauntings locally. He said he could look for the next hunt too. Dean had thrown the keys at him and buried himself in the blankets again.

I wandered through the dusty stacks of the library, light slanting over the floor through vertical blinds. Sam had found the local newspaper clippings and was patiently tapping through the files on the single terminal, scribbling notes as he went. The library was obviously a well-established building but one in need of care and upkeep. The yellow light made the dust motes dance and twinkle. The book stock also looked battered, out of date, despite the newer posters advertising recent acquisitions. I slid books off shelves, flicking through chapters, moving on.

Sam’s voice sounded a little panicked as I returned to his nook in the library. A girl was perched on the desk beside him. Her blonde hair was twisted back into a form of bun, like I supposed most librarians wore. She had a pen stuck in the messy twist, and long silver earrings dangled below her ears. Her blouse was some kind of soft pastel green and she seemed sad, bags beneath her eyes, despite her bright lipstick.

“It’s okay. I’m doing research.” Sam ran his hand through his hair, a clear sign of worry. Then his hand landed at the back of his neck. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. I had seen Sam act like this before. He thought this woman was attractive.

The girl leaned over to read his notepad. “Why?” She tried to sound disinterested and casual but a tremor in her voice betrayed her anxiety.

“For a book,” Sam blurted out.

An older man bent over the newspaper, scratching at the crossword looked up at that. “For a book. Are you a writer, son?”

“I… guess.” Sam tried to shift his notepad under the books beside him. He caught sight of me hovering. “Cas?”

“We should go back to Dean if you are finished,” I told him. The woman turned to look at me. She pursed her mouth, as if she wanted to ask something. Then she shook her head and slid off the desk. The old man with the newspaper wasn’t so easily dissuaded.

“A real writer. I run a book club, a literary society. And we meet here on a Tuesday evening. Tonight. It’d be great to have a real life writer come and talk to us.” Sam’s eyes widened almost comically at the man’s enthusiastic spiel and the gleam in his eyes.

“I... We might not be in town,” Sam tried.

The man wasn’t to be dissuaded. “But we could pay for you to stay. We are a well-supported group and it’d mean so much to them. To me. To us.” The man was invading Sam’s space now, pressing close up against him. Even sitting down, Sam was taller than the man.

The woman had returned to her place behind the desk and was stamping books, loud in the quiet library. The sound seemed to echo. The man’s voice took on a cajoling quality as he harangued Sam. Then my cell started to ring.

The music sounded loud in the library. I could feel the pressure of everyone’s eyes. I remembered then that, like movie theatres and churches, cell ringtones were discouraged. I fished the phone out of my pocket and answered Dean’s call.

The man started babbling at Sam again. The librarian stared at me, glare beyond disapproving into righteous fury. Sam tried to protest his unwillingness. And Dean demanded that we return to the motel.

“This case ain’t over,” Dean said, voice terse.

When is anything ever over? I thought, as I returned to Sam. “We’re staying,” I told him.

“See you tonight at seven,” said the man.

The librarian stamped her books, shoving them onto the cart more forcefully than required. It was time for us to beat a hasty retreat.

 

Dean was pacing the tiny room when we came in. He held up his hand and Sam returned the keys to him, tossing them underarm. “We got a problem.”

Sam nodded. He looked pale still. I didn’t think that the encounter with the literary club man should have such an effect on him but he was still acting uncomfortable. Dean watched Sam for a moment, grinned and shrugged.

“The salt and burn didn’t take. We had another death last night.” Dean flipped the local paper onto the table, red circle scrawled around the lead article. The pen he’d used had inscribed a deep groove into the paper. “Also Cas still seems to want to narrate EVERYTHING.”

Sam ignored his raised voice and grabbed the article. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. He pulled the notepad from his backpack. “The newspaper says he was dead at the scene. Then it says he said he told his friends he was leaving a legacy to the local garden society.”

“And newspapers are always reliable sources of information. The man in that grave wouldn’t have been able to talk.” Dean tapped his fingers on the paper in front of him. “Something about this doesn’t add up.”

“We should ask around, ask his friends-“ Sam was already flicking through his notes.

“Ask his girlfriend.” Sam looked up at that, eyebrows shooting up his enormous forehead. Dean snorted. “What?”

“The girlfriend. She works…”

“At the library.” Dean finished at Sam’s hesitation.

“And I might have an invitation to an event at the library.” Sam seemed to recover his composure. “I can ask her tonight.” I realised then who he was referring to. The woman stamping the books loudly, the woman he’d looked at with interest. Shuffling my memories of the funeral, I recognised her as the woman weeping into her handkerchief. It all started to come together.

“We still need to speak to his friends. There were two men at the funeral.” I turned to leave. We needed to track those men down.

Dean and Sam sat down, Sam on a chair that squeaked alarmingly under his bulk and Dean on the bed.

“How do you know who was at the funeral, Cas?” Sam asked. Dean just frowned at me.

“It seemed fitting,” I told them.

“You took a little jaunt back to the future again?” Dean asked. He quirked his eyebrow at me, tilting his head up, pursing his rich, full lips. Dean looked at his feet then, frowning again.

“I thought it appropriate to start the story at the beginning. Like the –“

“We are not in a film, Cas.” Dean exploded off the bed and came to stand in front of me, so close I could feel his breath on my face. “We are not in a TV show or a novel or anything. This is real life and there are real people dying.”

Dean’s eyes always flash when he is angry. He takes his “job” seriously, protecting people and saving lives. It is one of the things I admire most about him. He never gives up. We stood watching each other for a long moment until Sam’s cough broke the connection between us.

“I know,” I told Dean. “I understand.” He looked sad at that, as if he was spoiling my fun or something. I brought my hand up to rest it on his shoulder, feeling my mark on his shoulder. “His friends. Sam can handle the librarian.”

Dean grinned. “Sure,” he drawled out. “Sammy can “handle” the librarian, can’t you, Sam? Maybe she’ll turn out to be my kind of librarian…”

 

The man with the toupee turned out to be a dentist. The toupee was obvious, a bad wig, not quite covering the remains of grey above his ears, consisting of a colour not found in nature. I wondered why he wore it. It drew attention to his baldness, the opposite of its intent.

Dean flipped open an ID, claiming to be from the FBI. He nudged me then. Sam had organised new ID for me, claiming that if I was to come on cases, I needed a full set. This badge called me John Milton. Dean had accused Sam of being a dork when he handed me the new IDs. I thought it a fitting name. He had also made me one in the name of Immanuel Kant and Richard Dawkins. The man paled when Dean said he was investigating the death of Bert Lemon.

His name was Dr Short. He shook my hand when I offered it, a damp, limp handshake. Then he pulled the hand sanitizer towards him and scrubbed at his hands. I should be offended by that. Dean knocked his shoulder against mine.

“We just wanted to hear about the accident?” Dean said, expectantly. “You were there?”

“Yup. Me and Jack – we were Bert’s friends. Bert was crossing the street to meet him when the car came out of nowhere.” The dentist refused to meet our eyes, fiddling with paperwork on the desk. It seemed untidy for a man who was so fastidious about cleaning his hands.

“Did he die instantly?” Dean asked again.

Dr Short looked up then, eyes narrowed. “No. He told us to look out for his girlfriend. We gave her some money.”

“We?” Dean’s face was halfway between sympathetic and hard-boiled. It was an interesting combination. I memorised his expression, sweeping my eyes over his long eye lashes, the twist of his mouth, the elegant arch of jaw line. Dean flicked his eyes to meet mine and made a gesture with his hand by his side. I turned to look at the dentist again.

“Jack and me. And the driver. He was a friend of Bert’s too.” The dentist shuffled some more paper.

Dean tapped his foot, a little impatient now. “And his name?”

“Who’s name?”

“The driver?” Dean was all detective now, arrogant and demanding.

“Martin, Les Martin.” That was all the man with the toupee would give us. Dean pulled me by the sleeve of my coat and we left the dentist’s office and headed back onto the street. Dean watched the few pedestrians wander past.

“Les Martin. He was the first person killed – the mortician. He’s why we’re here.” Dean spoke thoughtfully. “We thought it was the ghost taking revenge.”

“That makes sense,” I replied, when he paused to think again.

Dean watched the pedestrians again, then turned to me. “You think there were any other witnesses? There’s a whole lot of coincidences piling up.” Dean never liked coincidences.

 

The death of Bert Lemon had occurred in a quiet residential street a few blocks from the main part of town. The street was lined with trees, turning from bare winter to spring now, green buds starting to unfurl. A crow cawed from the end of the street, then took off as we stepped out of the car. There were other cars parked along the street. Probably belonging to commuters not wanting to pay for parking and willing to walk. Dean stopped outside an ordinary looking house, one subdivided into apartments from the looks of the buzzer. It was an older house, but well kept, fence painted white, lawn mown and trimmed round the edges.

“This is Bert Lemon’s house,” I pointed out as we stood on the sidewalk. Dean stepped into the middle of the road, looking left and right. A window shot open in the house.

“What do you want?” A crisp, authoritarian voice rang out. I looked back to see an older man, old, actually, leaning out. Dean came back to the sidewalk.

“We’re friends of Bert Lemon,” he shouted up. “Can we talk to you?”

The man made a face. Then he nodded. “Come on up.” The buzzer sounded loudly in the quiet street.

 

His apartment was full. Every surface was covered with a trinket or a box holding a trinket. But there was no dust, no dirt. Everything was immaculate, including the loud ticking clock over the gleaming black fireplace. The man showed us into a room full of overstuffed furniture. I sat beside Dean on the sofa.

“You look official,” the man said bluntly. Dean looked down at his suit.

“Just being respectful,” Dean tried. “Were you here when Bert was killed?”

“I saw it!” the man crowed, proud suddenly.

Dean frowned. “There was no mention of you in the newspaper.”

“Well, there were so many men there. And Bert was damn dead, so I didn’t bother.” Bert’s neighbour – Mr Dickie - ran his hand over his neat cropped grey hair. “I only heard the start of it.”

“Could you just tell us? It’ll help with our... grief.” I watched Dean try to look sad. The man didn’t seem to care, happy to get his story listened to.

“There was a shout and the sound of tires. Then I looked out of the window and saw Bert lying in the street. He was dead, definitely. Then those two friends of him, the dentist and the other chap helped the driver carry Bert to the sidewalk.” The man looked between us.

“He was definitely dead?” Dean checked. I could sense his growing excitement.

“Oh yes.” Dick turned and pulled a photo frame off a shelf behind him. It showed a much younger him and a couple of friends, decked out in army gear. “I was a battlefield medic back in ‘Nam.”

We said our goodbyes and headed off shortly afterwards, but not before Bert’s neighbour had one more piece to add to the puzzle. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. But there was another man with that dentist fellow with the toupee and the tall one.”

“The driver of the car?” Dean enquired, tilting his head.

“No, no. Another guy. I didn’t see clearly because they were all the way across the road. But there was another man.” Dick seemed certain beyond all doubt.

“A third man?” Dean drew the words out, obviously deep in thought. He didn’t even snigger at the neighbour’s name.

 

I wasn’t at the library with Sam. I only heard the story later. Sam headed off, glumly, in the car while Dean and I ate a pizza in the motel room. Further to my attempts to be “typical”, I kicked off my shoes and lay alongside Dean on the bed as he ate from the box on his lap. He eyed me.

“I was going to have some private time here, Cas,” he said, watching me carefully.

I had a sudden flash of Dean, t-shirt rucked up, boxers and jeans tangled round his thighs, thrusting into the tunnel of his fist. Dean’s jaw dropped and he was stunned into silence. Then I remembered he could hear every word. “Dean...”

“You should go.” Dean’s voice was hard to read. I could not tell if he was angry or… something else. “Go perch on a roof somewhere.” His voice shook towards the end. I left the room, letting the door close behind me.

I was sticking to my plan of not using my powers while I was here, so I could not escape to Heaven or go “perch on a roof”. I thought about waiting outside the door but decided to take a walk. Sam picked me up when I had walked nearly three miles in the darkness. He looked quite visibly shaken.

The library meeting had been as disastrous as he’d expected. “They asked me about my process. I tried to talk about doing research. But they wanted more, Cas.”

Sam kept one hand on the wheel but used the other to wave in the air, describing ever decreasing circles. Finally he let it drop back onto the wheel. “Then I asked about Bert Lemon. I made her cry.”

“The librarian?”

“Dorothy. Dorothy Ann. She’s nice and sweet and kind and was so helpful to the old folk.” Sam pulled his hand off the wheel to wave it around again. “She’s nice.”

“You like her,” I suggested, watching the road, thanking that it’s quiet.

“Of course I like her. She’s-“

“Nice.” It was hard not to laugh at him. I realised that I was starting to think a bit like Dean.

“And she’s pretty, you know. And smart.” Sam pulled the car into the motel parking lot. The lights were off in the room. However the lights in the bar on the far side of the lot were shining brightly. Sam climbed out of the car, shaking his legs slightly before turning back to me. “I’m gonna…” He waved his thumb in the direction of the bar.

“I will join you.” He looked a little shocked at first, then shrugged.

“Why not?” Sam turned away and strode through the parked cars into the bar.

 

“There I was, making an eedjit of myself and then I get lost going to the bathroom.” Sam took another swallow of the whiskey in his glass, making a face at the taste. This was his fourth. Or fifth. I had not kept pace, knowing it would take rather more than whiskey to make me less than sober. Then he drank some more. I sipped at mine. “Lost. Then I hear these footsteps.”

“Hmm.” I found I liked this whiskey, the edge of a burn as I drank it.

Sam leaned closer over the table. “Of course I think it’s the ghost. So I burst out of the closet I’ve managed to lock myself into and wave my gun right in her face. Right in it. But she doesn’t scream. She just looks at me, all disappointed.” Sam swayed back, then gestured to the barman for another couple of drinks.

The bar was dark, would have been smoky a few years ago, but it was just the two of us and another couple in it along with the barman. Midweek, sure, but I thought it might have been busier. The other couple were wrapped in themselves, leaning close together, touching as much as they could without actually meaning to. There were times I’d sat by Dean like that, drawing comfort in his presence. I don’t mean to watch, not really, but I envied them the simple pleasure they displayed when the woman turned to the man and placed a gentle kiss on his temple.

Sam was still talking. “But the weird thing. When we were heading back to the main room, I could have sworn Dorothy Ann’s footsteps sounded different. They weren’t the footsteps I’d heard earlier.”

“Maybe you scared the ghost off,” I suggested, tearing my eyes from the couple. My mind was half filled with their affection tangled with thoughts of Dean. The other half caught up with what Sam was saying. “What if there was a third person there?”

Sam put his drink down. “What if the ghost still wants to get her?”

 

Sam stumbled crossing the parking lot. I did not think he’d had that much to drink but apparently I was wrong. I did not want to risk driving the Impala. “We should get Dean.”

Sam had automatically gone to the passenger side of the car and he placed his palms flat on the roof of the car. “Good plan.”

“You should go get Dean,” I responded. Sam opened his mouth, about to ask why but gave up on it and went to bang on the door of the motel room. Dean was still fully dressed when he opened it. Sam swayed forward, tipping over slightly when the door was flung open.

“Forget your key?” he demanded, glaring at Sam. It didn’t look as if we had woken him. His hair wasn’t flattened like it was after he slept. He shot a glance at me across the lot.

“We need to go see the librarian.” Sam pulled at Dean, who disengaged Sam’s hand and went back into the room. It was with relief that I saw that he had just gone to put on his shoes and coat. Sam dropped the keys into his hand when he held it out and then they were crossing the lot towards me. Dean hesitated a little when he saw me, face unreadable, but he still swung around to the passenger side and opened the car.

“Get in, Cas,” was all he said.

 

There was a brief discussion that seemed mainly to consist of cut off sentences and eyebrow tilts before Sam threw up his hands in disgust and headed out to ring the doorbell.

Dean watched him trip over the low step then turned to me. “Come sit in the front.”

The air had started to cool rapidly. For all the spring sunshine, it was cold out when the sun goes down. I slid into Sam’s vacated seat and almost unconsciously mirrored Dean’s stretched limbs, arm along the back of the seat. Our fingertips brushed.

“So,” Dean spoke softly, so softly I had to strain to hear. “I guess I heard what you were thinking earlier.”

This wasn’t like Dean. Not the Dean I used to know. Dean who would bottle up every emotion, every thought and feeling under lock and key, only to be revealed under duress.

“Yeah,” he said. “I used to. I should-“ He looked at me with those mossy green eyes, capable of holding such pain. “I’m not all emo, not like Sam. You know that. I was kinda shocked you can think of me like, you know, _that_.” Dean scratched his fingers through the short fuzz of hair at the back of his neck. He didn’t move his other hand, the one along the back of the seat. The one I was moving from brushing against to deliberately, softly, stroking. “Dammit, Cas.”

Dean shifted in his seat, coming closer. I leaned nearer too. “I did not think of the consequences.”

“You should hear my thoughts.” Dean tried to diffuse the rapidly ratcheting tension between us with his usual humour.

“I would not intrude, Dean.” Our knees touched, and Dean let out a slow, shuddering breath. His hand came to rest on my shoulder, then it slid to clasp the back of my neck. Then suddenly Dean was close, lips breathing over mine, hesitating. I had no such hesitation. I closed the final millimetres between us and kissed him.

*

*

*

Sam’s hand slammed against the door, startling us out of our embrace. Dean was bright red as he shot back to his side of the bench, clasping the wheel tightly. He took my place in the rear.

“She said I was drunk,” he complained.

“You are drunk,” I pointed out.

“You’re drunk,” Sam muttered, looking out of the window. I didn’t have time to point out the falseness of his assertion because Sam shot upright, hand grabbing the seat between Dean and I. Sam pointed out the window. A shadow stood a little way down the street, in a doorway. We watched it, hardly daring to breath. Dean eased his gun out of the inside of his coat. I’d wondered if it was a gun I felt when I was pressed against him. The tips of Dean’s ears slowly turned red.

A light went on in a house across the road, chasing the shadows from the figure and revealing his features clearly. There was a moment when we all paused, breaths caught, as Bert Lemon watched us, tipped his hand in an ironic salute and turned and ran down the street.

Dean started the car, slamming it into gear and roaring down the street in pursuit. Sam gripped the back of the bench seat while I ended up with one hand balanced on the dash. “There!” Sam yelled in my ear.

The figure of Bert had run down the side of a house, down an alleyway too narrow for us to follow. Dean slammed his hand off the wheel. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam slumped back into his seat, his knees pressing into my back. There was a strangled laugh, and then he began to hum. Now Sam singing makes dogs howl and cats run for shelter, so his humming is not something to be desired. Even so, I could make out something of a tune. “Da da da, de da, de da….”

Dean turned the car and drove back to the motel. Sam kept humming.

 

The motel room looked much the same as we had left it. Sam stumbled to his bed, throwing himself down face first and wriggling until he was comfortable. Dean’s bed was more wrinkled, sheets rumpled and drawn into ridges like waves on the ocean. Dean smoothed his hand over it futilely before sitting down on the edge.

He opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he shut it. He tilted his head and opened his mouth again and shut it. He looked like a goldfish. He threw me an annoyed look. “Tell me Cas, who the hell did we salt and burn?”

I had no answer for him and shrugged my shoulders.

“Inna mornin’” came from the direction of Sam’s bed, followed, moments later by a soft snore.

Dean ran his hand over his face, scrubbing at his chin. “In the morning?”

I nodded. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, watching me. He grinned, suddenly, unexpectedly. Then he bent to unlace his boots, still smiling. I sat in the same chair Sam had used earlier. It squeaked for me too. Dean took his jeans off, slinging them in a pile before pulling the sheets back and sliding under them. He shuffled over to one side of the bed, leaving a gap.

“You could… Lie down?” He made it a question rather than an offer. I admit I was tempted. It felt like the right place to be, just not now. Not with Sam here too.

“I will stay here. For now.” Dean nodded, leaned over to switch the light off and plumped his pillow a few times before lying down. He watched me, in the darkness, for a long time before succumbing to sleep.

 

Sam groaned for around an hour in the bathroom before making it back to the main room. Dean had sat flicking through the newspaper reports and looking through his notes. When Sam finally came in, wiping his mouth, Dean offered him a cup of coffee and pushed the laptop towards him. “Sammy.”

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was rough. He looked at the laptop with one eye open, then the other.

“Do your thing,” Dean said, wiggling his fingers.

“What thing?” Sam asked, letting both his eyes shut.

Dean sighed. “We need to know if the police had any information on Bert Lemon. We can’t go ask them so you need to-“ Dean wriggled his fingers again.

Sam blinked his eyes open and drew the machine towards him.

“Do you want any doughnuts?” Dean asked, laying on the sympathy. Sam held his hand up, clapped it over his mouth and swallowed compulsively. Dean leaned back in his seat and grinned.

Sam tapped urgently at the computer for around five minutes. During that time, Dean drank a cup of the disgusting motel room coffee and I lay on the bed, finally stretching out. We did not look at each other. Except when we did and caught the other looking. Finally Sam stretched his arms high above his head, stretching his shoulders. He looked better.

“Seems our guy was about to get arrested. He’d been selling some kind of pyramid scheme.” Sam tapped a few keys. “Screwing people out of money.”

“Easier to ‘die’ than to be arrested?” Dean started to pace. “So who was in the coffin?”

Sam shrugged. I looked up at the ceiling of the room, tracing the cracks in the paint with my eyes. Dean sat back in the squeaky chair again. Then he snapped his fingers.

“Who gave them the information? Who were the cops going to get to testify?” Dean pulled the laptop towards him and pressed a few buttons. Then he pointed in triumph at the screen. A file, a photo taken at time of arrest prominent, was on the screen. “This guy. Godfrey. Allan Godfrey. He’s no… um… angel, either.”

Sam let out a snort and then nodded. “Two things. We should find out if he’s missing and then we have to let the police know Lemon is alive.”

“Why can’t we… Oh.” Dean resumed pacing again. “Not our kind of case.”

“Not anymore.” Sam closed the laptop screen. “We should be moving on.” Sam doesn’t make any kind of move though. He sat and looked at Dean who leaned on the table and watched him.

“Yeah. That’s not happening.” Dean rapped the table with his right hand and pushed himself upright. Then he grabbed his boots and rammed his feet into them. “We need to stop this son of a bitch. Even if we’re going to be all Batman about it.”

“Batman?” I asked, looking from Dean to Sam in confusion. Dean just shrugged into his coat, checking his gun was in place.

Sam got himself ready to head out too. “We’ll beat him up and leave him somewhere for the cops to find. Like Batman.”

“But not dressed like giant bats,” I checked, as I followed them out of the motel room, closing the door firmly behind me. Neither Sam nor Dean answered that query.

 

Dean and Sam went back to the library, Sam flushing red and stuttering out a sincere apology to the girl behind the desk. The girl who stamped books, smiled at patrons without it reaching her eyes and resolutely ignored any attempts of Sam’s to charm her. Dean dug out maps of the town in the local history section and spread them out on the empty tables. Then he wrangled one to the photocopier and made a copy, spreading that out and pulling a pen from his pocket. He worked in silence, mainly, muttering under his breath now and again. He was staring at me for inspiration when Sam stopped trying to make amends and came to join us.

“Give up already,” Dean suggested bluntly, returning his gaze to the sheet of paper in front of him. “What’s this symbol?” Dean tapped at the original map.

Sam searched the key at the side for a long moment. “Sewer access.”

Dean shuffled through the pile of maps, pulling out one of the town’s main utilities. He went back to his photocopy, drawing lines now instead of circles. The lines seemed to join up with the circles he’d drawn. “That’s how he disappears.”

“I hate sewers,” groaned Sam. He checked Dean’s scribbles then tapped his fingers on a point intersected by a couple of the lines. “What’s there?”

“Interchange.” Dean and Sam looked glumly at each other and nodded in unison. Then Dean turned to me and patted me on the shoulder. “There is a point on every hunt when it comes to getting dirty. This hunt just hit that point.”

“Digging the grave did not count,” I enquired, eager to understand the nuances of the case.

“Nah,” Dean said, folding the maps away and sticking the copy in his pocket. “That was clean dirt compared to this.”

 

The rushing water through the concrete maze beneath the town was quite impressive. Rivers and streams and lakes beneath our feet. Dean said to breathe through our noses, and I followed his advice as I followed his wavering torch through the darkness. Our eyesight, our adjustment to the darkness was destroyed by the sunlight shooting through the grates evenly placed in the ceiling but even that diminished as we made our way further and further underground.

Our footsteps echoed loudly round the cathedral like tunnels, grand and huge and impressive in their own way.

Dean tugged me closer. “Dude. It stinks down here. It’s cold. And it’s huge because this town is full of shit. Quit with the describing.”

I nodded. Then I pointed ahead. A shadow flickered on the wall, looming huge and black, coming closer. I hoped the noise of the water would cover our own approach. Dean clicked his torch off, handed it to me and withdrew his gun from his pocket. He brought it up to point at the shadow, hands steady, face resolute, jaw set. The shadow came closer and closer, growing in stature until it reached high on the wall.

A very ordinary looking man came around the corner, wearing a long coat like mine, a suit and with a fixed smug expression. The smug expression faded a little as he caught sight of us. Dean let lose a shot and then the chase was on. The man took to his heels, running and splashing along the broad edges of the tunnel. We gave chase, the need for stealth gone. The tunnels split and crossed and the shadow vanished. Ahead, Sam called to us.

“Split up!” Dean yelled, shoving me towards the left hand tunnel. I ran along the tunnel, hearing the echoing whoops and splashes a thousand fold. The shadow, the man, Bert Lemon, seemed to have evaded us. My tunnel took a right angle to the left and I followed it without thinking. Beyond it was another tunnel stretching north and a grate, set high in the roof with a ladder leading up to it. At the top of the ladder stood Bert Lemon, pushing at the grate.

“Stop there,” I ordered. He looked at me, grinned, and pushed harder. He seemed oddly happy for someone who was about to be exposed and captured. I came closer, grabbing for his ankle. He kicked at me, but I pulled at him, determined to drag him down to meet justice. Instead of trying to break free, he pulled a gun from his pocket and shot me, the reverberating noise covering any noise I might have made.

The sound seemed to echo long after the shot had been fired. I could not hear anything else – not the rushing water, not the footsteps and shouts of Sam and Dean. Nothing but the sharp retort. There was no pain, of course. This pathetic man could not hope to harm me.

I stumbled backwards, more from surprise than anything. The bullet seemed to have passed right through me and I looked up at him. He wasn’t paying any attention to me, eyes fixed on the grate, trying to shift one corner up. Blood welled up out of the bullethole and I knew it would be stark red against the white of my shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dean skid out of the tunnel to the north and aim at Bert. He fired, twice, eyes fierce. Lemon looked surprised, as if he didn’t think it could happen to him, and let his grip on the ladder slip, falling into the shallow pool of water at its foot. His body sprawled, blood mixing with the dark water. The smile was finally wiped off his face.

Dean grabbed my shoulder. “Cas?” His eyes were riveted to the bullet wound, the red blood on my shirt. I poked my finger through it.

“He could not hurt me, Dean,” I informed him. Instead of being reassured, Dean encircled me with his arms, pulling me tight. Then he let me go and punched my arm, forcing him to shake his hand from the shock afterwards.

“Don’t get shot. First rule of hunting.” Dean sounded angry and pleased and sad all at once.

Sam ran out of the tunnel mouth, wielding his weapon. He looked at the slumped body and sighed, sticking the gun into the back of his jeans. “You guys okay?”

We nodded. Dean would know what to do with the body, how to leave it so the authorities found it and buried it properly. Maybe an anonymous phone call. For now, however, I wanted nothing more than to leave this place and remove the stench of the sewers from my skin.

 

Dean let Sam have the first shower, taking his time laying out fresh clothes. I had cheated and used my power to clean my own clothes, fix the bullet wound. It took an instant. Dean and Sam were not so lucky. They would have to visit the laundrette, wash these clothes and themselves. Dean smiled the type of smile he used when he was going to cause mischief and started shucking his clothes, piling them into a brown bag from the grocery store in town. He was down to his boxers when Sam came back into the roof, fully dressed, towelling his hair dry.

“Laundry duty, man.” Dean thrust the bag at him and stole the towel from his hands. He wrapped it around his waist and wriggled out of his boxers under it. He threw them at Sam and turned to enter the bathroom. Sam opened his mouth to protest, whether in disgust or to dispute the need to do laundry I was not sure. Then he snapped it shut again and gathered his clothes.

Dean was humming something as he moved around the bathroom, not yet starting the shower.

“I’ll just take Cas then,” Sam yelled grabbing the keys to the Impala off the table.

Dean poked his head out of the bathroom. “Leave him here. He should shower too. I know it’s psychological, but he should wash. Get wet. Water.” Dean’s head vanished back into the bathroom.

Sam looked me up and down, eyes amused. Then he gave me a half wave, grabbed a duffel from floor and left. The minute the door shut behind him, Dean was out of the bathroom and locking the door. He watched through the window as Sam pulled out before closing the curtains and turning to me.

“So. Um. Yeah. Clothes.” Dean scratched at the back of his head. I watched as the movement made the muscles on his chest flex, sending a ripple down his abdomen, disappearing underneath the towel. I felt the urge to trace the path of the movement, with my fingers, perhaps. Or my tongue. Dean crowded into my space then, shoving at my coat, my jacket on one hand and trying to pull me closer, tighter with the other. I kissed him, pressing my lips to his, knowing exactly how to shift my tongue when his mouth gasped open.

Dean stumbled backwards. “Cas.” He laughed my name, shakily. “Stop with the fucking narrative. The case is over. The guy is dead. Just… Clothes, off.”

I let my coat and jacket slip to the floor, loosened my tie and pulled it over my head. Buttons seemed to take forever under the hot gaze of Dean’s eyes. He made no move to touch me, instead letting me kick off my shoes, unbutton my pants and let them pool on the ground. Dean put his hands to the knot in his towel as I fumbled my hands into the waistband of my own underwear, sliding it over my hips and down my legs. The towel dropped into the pile of clothes.

Dean came towards me again, deliberately stalking. There should be something vaguely humorous, comical even about a naked man, his erect cock swaying as he comes closer. Instead, I felt my mouth water. I wondered if it would taste as heavy as it looked. I expected Dean to kiss me again but he took my hand and led me to the bathroom.

“Shower. Now.” He let his free hand trace over my heart, where the bullet wound had been. There were still lingering flakes of blood on my skin. Then he grinned, happy and free and proud. “And after too, maybe.”

Dean kissed me again, mouth hard, stubble scraping at my cheeks.

*

*

*

 

Robert Lemon’s second, and real, funeral was attended by the same amount of people as the first. The cast had changed somewhat. I was there again, of course, more obviously this time and so was Dorothy Ann. But Sam and Dean took the place of Bert’s friends, Dean checking the grave before the grave dirt was tumbled over the coffin.

“Still say we should have cremated him,” Dean muttered as we walked along the long gravel path back to the Impala. He kicked at the small stones as they crunched underneath our feet.

Sam was distracted though, looking behind us. Dorothy Ann was still standing by the grave, not crying. She just watched as the grave was filled in, spades of earth thumping on the coffin lid, then duller as the grave filled.

Dean leaned across the roof of the car while Sam tripped around to the other side, eyes still fixed on the lonely girl by the grave. Dean’s eyes shifted to mine and he smiled, suddenly, brilliantly. “Hey, Cas. Now the case is over, you gonna shut up in my head?”

“I think that wise, Dean,” I told him, letting my mouth quirk up in something that would be a smile on anybody else. It wasn’t as if Dean hadn’t worked out the way to get me to ‘shut up’ all by himself. It would not be wise for my lover to hear every thought that went through my head. It was more fun, I thought, to be told to push harder. The tips of Dean’s ears started burning again.

“Ready to head out, Sam?” Sam was still staring into the distance. He opened the car door and shut it again.

“You guys head on. I’m going to check on Dorothy Ann.” He nodded to himself and went to stand by the side of the road, leaning against a half ruined mausoleum. Dean shrugged and slid into the car. I opened Sam’s door and joined Dean on the bench seat. He gunned the car and pulled away, gravel crunching under the car’s wheels. He pulled around the corner and stopped the car.

“C’mere,” Dean ordered and I slid closer to him, letting him place his hand around my shoulders and guide me to look out of the rear view mirror. Sam shuffled his feet on the ground, slouching his hands into his pockets and drawing them out again. Dean’s hand tightened on my shoulder as Dorothy Ann came into sight, walking determinedly in the spring sunshine. We watched in silence as she walked past Sam, not even giving him a sideways glance. She marched out of the cemetery gates beyond us.

Dean shook with silent laughter for a moment. Then he restarted the car and reversed to where Sam had started walking. Sam slid into the back seat and looked between us. “Not one word.”

And I shut up as well.


End file.
